


Izzy

by Jackie Thomas (Jackie_Thomas)



Series: Izzy [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Assumes the events of S7-9 never happened, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 07:45:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5735476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackie_Thomas/pseuds/Jackie%20Thomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You can’t just take him home.  He’s not somebody’s cat.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Izzy

James and I come across Izzy Field in the squad room late one afternoon. He is sitting with a uniformed colleague watching her perform some feat of bureaucracy on her computer. He must be nineteen or twenty years old by now, but I’ve known him since he was two and spilling juice on Morse’s shoes.

His mother had been a familiar face on the streets and around the nick for years. He was even named Isaac after one of my old colleagues who delivered him one summer evening on a Hinksey Park bench. 

“Hello, Izzy.”

“Hiya, Robbie, all right? Hello, Sergeant Hathaway.”

“We were sorry to hear about Ellie.” 

His expression clouds, “That’s okay.”

He lost his mother, it would be three weeks ago now. She’d had a problem with drugs for years and when a fire started in their flat while Izzy was out, she was in no condition to do anything about it. 

“So, what have you been up to this time?” 

He dips his head in embarrassment so I look to the PC. She glances up from her industrious one-finger typing.

“He was turning tricks for tuppence by the Castle, sir. He’s had a caution issued for soliciting.”

He has always been a pleasant boy and it is terrible to see him start down the same road as his mam.

“What happened to your job?” I ask. I’d seen him a couple of times in one of the flashy boutiques along the high street.

“I couldn’t keep it up after mum,” he says, looking down at his grimy hands. 

“Where are you living?” James asks. He doesn’t answer so we again look to the PC. She prints the caution documentation and hands it to James.

“He’s not very clear,” she says. “But he seems to be squatting in his mum’s burnt-out flat, right Iz? No heat or water.”

He looks like he’s been homeless for a while, or certainly bathless. His long, black hair is matted and dirty, his jeans torn and stained. He is thinner even than James, and the t-shirt with One Direction on the front is not enough on any English evening let alone this bitterly cold January one.

“It’s going to be freezing tonight,” James says. “Can’t we get him a hostel bed?”

“We don’t want to go to a hostel,” the PC says as if this represents a bone of contention.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Them hostels,” the PC quotes. “Are well-dodge.”

He is a slightly built, girlish boy with his mother’s startling blue eyes and the nature of the ‘dodge’ is not hard to guess. He is too old for social services to have an obligation to and by the state of him, he’s run out of options. I decide he’s been through enough.

“Stay in my spare room tonight,” I say. “We can work something out in the morning.”

Izzy looks hopeful, “Can I?”

The PC flashes an anxious look at James.

“Can I have a word, sir?” He says, his tone indicating I’m in trouble with my sergeant once again.

“Yes, you can. But first Izzy can have a look in the clothes cupboard for something to wear.”

“That stuff’s all off dead people,” Izzy objects, breezily familiar with the dusty corners of the nick and its folklore.

“No its not and don’t argue. See if you can’t find something warmer than that malarkey. Did you not notice it was winter?”

The business of the caution is completed and we three walk to one of the basement storage rooms we have long used to help out those who periodically arrive at the station in urgent need of a new outfit. It is a shifting collection of random items bought from petty cash, left behind and donated by staff. Admittedly previous owners are sometimes deceased, but it is not an essential requirement.

“Sir,” Hathaway starts up when Izzy is inside. “He’s been shoplifting since he could walk. You can’t have him in your house.”

“He’s a child whatever the law says. You don’t want him sleeping in a derelict flat on a night like this.”

“Of course not, but you can’t just take him home. He’s not somebody’s cat.”

“No, he’s somebody’s son. Look, my lad left home when he wasn’t much older than Izzy and I worried he would end up on the street on a night like this. At least I know he’ll be safe with me.”

“I know he’s safe with you. But are you safe with him? How do you know he’s not going to stab you in your sleep?”

“Come on, Hathaway. He’s never been violent.”

“No okay, but what are you going to do, open a halfway house? There are a thousand out there like him.”

At that moment Izzy flings open the clothes cupboard door engulfed in a faux fur leopard print jacket of the sort your racy auntie might have worn in the nineteen fifties.

“Can I really have this?!”

“Well,” James amends. “Not exactly like him.”

**~**

We drive to a nearby council estate and Izzy leads us to the third floor flat his mother died in. Its windows and doors had been sealed by the Council against squatters but he has broken in.

James follows him into the flat, falling silent when he sees the extent of the destruction. I had not appreciated quite how bad the fire had been either. When he sees me hesitate in the doorway, he signals there is no need for me to come any further. No more burning buildings for me, it seems. 

When James and Izzy come out ten minutes later, it is with a single bin bag half full of clothes and a Tesco bag containing an uncharged phone and a collection of useless odds and ends. These turn out to be the extent of the boy’s remaining possessions.

I’m taking a call while they carry his things down to the car. I can see James giving the lad a talking to. Something about not misbehaving I don’t doubt because I hear Izzy saying, “I won’t do anything bad, honest.” 

“Make sure you don’t,” James replies.

James is still looking uneasy when we get to my house but I know he needs to get back to work to prep for court tomorrow so I don’t invite him in. We watch Izzy trailing down the path carrying all his world in one hand.

“Get yourself away, James,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He starts the car without another word.

“I don’t blame him,” Izzy says, always an odd mixture of innocence and wisdom. “I wouldn’t trust me either.”

“Well I trust you,” I tell him. “In you go, before we both freeze to death.”

I show him his room, give him some clothes of mine to change into and point him to the shower. I put whatever’s salvageable of his own stuff into the washing machine but that’s not much, most of it is only fit for the bin.

I let him choose the takeaway but he is falling asleep before he’s had more than a slice of pizza so I send the poor kid to bed.

**~**

I find him waiting for me in the kitchen the next morning. He is looking ridiculous in my pyjamas which he is both too skinny and too short for. He has been staring out of the window into the cold darkness but, as I come in, he gives me a sleepy smile and asks if he can make us breakfast. I heard muffled crying from his room last night but he investigates the fridge and burbles on amiably, just as though his whole future is not hanging in the balance. I make a decision.

“If you want, Iz, the room’s yours until you get yourself sorted.”

He looks at me in wonder, “Why are you helping me? I ain’t done nothing to deserve it.”

“Don’t worry about that. It’s just a bit of breathing space so you don’t need to get into any more trouble. I know you’re a good lad at heart.”

I’m treated to a hundred-watt smile, “I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t let you down.”

He’s whisking eggs when something occurs to him, “I think Sergeant Hathaway’s going to do his nut.”

“I think you’re probably right,” I say. 

James turns up shortly after, claiming he thought he was driving today and casting about for signs of whatever catastrophe he spent the night dreaming up. He peers into the saucepan where eggs are scrambling and looks cautiously approving.

“The secret is not to stir,” Izzy informs him. 

James blinks; I’d had the ‘fold not stir’ lecture from him too, “That’s true,” he says.

“So what are your plans?” James asks.

**~**

In the car, James says nothing and says nothing until the noise of him saying nothing becomes deafening.

“Go on,” I say. “Do your nut.”

“Have you had a bang on the head I don’t know about? How can you give him your key, you don’t know anything about him?”

“I gave you my key, I know considerably less about you.” 

“Sir,” he says. “I don’t mean to be unkind, but you don’t just get over the kind of life he’s had.”

“I don’t expect him to, James,” I say. Carefully because now I’m wondering if we are only talking about Izzy.

“I don’t want you to -,” he begins, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “He might do you damage and not be able to help it.”

“I understand that. But I say we give him a chance. He’s worth that, isn’t he?”

After a moment, he gives a reluctant nod of ascent and we pass the rest of the drive in silence.

We spend the day between court and office. When I get a chance I tell Innocent I’m letting someone we’ve recently arrested stay with me. She cautions against it, but as there is no ongoing case she doesn’t have a firm objection. She looks less troubled when she hears who it is. Izzy is a favourite of hers too. 

The case adjourns at four and then we’re off for the weekend. After being asked a dozen times if everything is all right at home, I tell James to come back and check for himself. 

We find Izzy asleep on the couch, wearing my jeans and jumper. Monty, not known for his love of new people, is sprawled across his chest. Boy and cat wake as we come in.

“All right?” He asks hazily. 

The flat has been transformed. It is clear Izzy has spent the day cleaning and, from the smell coming from the kitchen, cooking too.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say.

“That’s all right, I enjoy it. I didn’t go in your room though; I didn’t know if you’d want me to. I can do it tomorrow.” He casts an anxious glance at James. “I’m going to look for a job too.”

Dinner turns out to be chicken stew made with tomatoes, onions and herbs. Ingredients bought with the few quid I’d given him this morning when my sergeant wasn’t looking. 

“You’re a good cook,” James says as we sit down to eat.

“Nah, not really. My nan taught me this one. She used to say every man should have three signature dishes. You’ve already had two of mine. The other one’s basically spag bol.”

James looks at me, “Do you hear that, sir? Three signature dishes.”

“Yes, I heard. Thanks very much.”

“Is your nan still around, Iz?” James asks.

“She died two years ago. She used to look after me when mum couldn’t.”

“What about your dad?”

“He went off when I was little; I don’t know where he is.”

“Have you got any other family? Any aunts or uncles.” I see he is trying to find out if there is anyone who might be persuaded to take responsibility for the boy. If Izzy thinks this line of questioning is a bit near the knuckle he doesn’t show it.

“Mum had a cousin. He’s a policeman, like you, but in Banbury”

James’ frown deepens. “This isn’t DC Trevor Field?”

“Yeah, do you know him?”

James and I exchange a glance. DC Field had been briefly at Oxford on our team until he was transferred for being ‘a poor fit’. This is a polite way of saying he was bone idle and a miserable git.

“He’s never related to you and Ellie?” I say.

“Yeah, but we weren’t allowed to tell anyone. He gave her money sometimes to keep quiet.”

“Didn’t he have you to stay after your mother died?” James asks, his tone dropping a few degrees below zero.

“No, but he paid for the cremation because I didn’t have any money.” He catches James’ expression, “I told him I was all right.” 

This seems to decide something for James, “You’re free tomorrow morning, aren’t you?” The boy looks alarmed but agrees he is. “We can go and buy some new clothes. There’s no chance of you getting a job looking like shrunken Inspector Lewis.”

When Izzy can speak through his astonishment he says, “Cheers, Sergeant Hathaway, I’ll pay you back as soon as I get some money. I promise.”

James throws me a ‘don’t start’ look because I’m raising my eyebrows.

“You can call him James,” I say instead.

**~**

Within a couple of days Izzy is much more his old, daft self, having slept, eaten, washed and acquired a surprisingly extensive new wardrobe, courtesy of James. It was a memorable shopping expedition for my sergeant, having found himself spending as much time in the girl’s department of Top Shop as the boy’s. While Izzy failed to contain his delight, James got the funny looks. Izzy spends hours poring over his new clothes and shoes, marvelling that James didn’t seem bothered about the cost.

“He’s even more of a clothes horse than you so I wouldn’t feel too bad,” I tell him. “That lot probably cost less than one of his suits.”

Izzy nods wisely while admiring a floral monstrosity of a shirt, “He does have some genius suits.”

Izzy, as promised, goes out and gets himself a job. He is taken on as a waiter by the Half Moon Café, a bistro in central Oxford. It is apparently ‘well-trendy’, which seems to mean they hardly pay minimum wage.

On his days off he tears around cleaning and tidying and won’t be told. As part-payment to James, he volunteers to tackle the garden he shares with his upstairs neighbour. She is an elderly lady no longer able to manage her half and he views his as an extended ashtray. Izzy seems to relish the challenge.

“So you gave him your key, then?” I ask, first chance I get. “And you not knowing anything about him and all.”

But James is so disturbed about something he misses the dig, “He’s tidied up my books and CDs, sir.”

“It’s time someone did.”

On the odd occasion I’ve seen James’ flat, there were more piled on the floor and tables than on the shelves.

“I know but, alphabetised,” he whispers.

There is an unsuspected yearning in Izzy to bring order to chaos. James is not the only target; I’ve had the contents of my kitchen cupboards reviewed and categorised until I can find nothing, nothing at all.

He must, I realise, have spent his life trying to tidy his mam into order. I think of all the missed school days and missed times with friends. The wasted days trailing after a wasted mother.

James must be thinking along the same lines because the next Sunday when Izzy comes back from his place, it is with a paperback. He is not looking too pleased about it.

“What have you got there?” I ask.

He gloomily holds up Thomas Hardy, Tess of the D’Urbervilles.

“Sergeant Hathaway says I have to read it.”

“You can call him James, you know. He wasn’t christened ‘sergeant’. Why do you have to read it?”

“Because it’s a GCSE set text.”

“You’re going to do some exams?”

“Looks that way. I told him I’m too thick.”

“Give over, you’re as bright as a button.”

He regards the book with suspicion, “It ain’t even in English. It’s in old timey language.” 

It is an odd choice, not the easiest of reads and I ask James about it later.

“Useless parents,” he explains. “I thought he might relate.”

Izzy spends a few hours each day curled on the sofa with the book. Like any reluctant student; alternately absorbed, struggling and falling asleep over it. But he doesn’t give up. I suspect it is the novelty of someone taking an interest in what he does that motivates him, because he reports back regularly to James. He finally puts it aside, declaring it, ‘flipping miserable’, but moving on, unprompted, to Jude the Obscure. To find out, according to James, what misery really is.

**~**

Over the weeks we settle into a routine. He works long, unsocial hours, as do I, so we are not constantly under each other’s feet but the sense of another soul occupying the space alters it and I feel oddly unburdened.

I know he feels the loss of his mam, I still hear him crying sometimes. I also know he is avoiding his old friends from the estate and school because he wants to make a new, less precarious, start for himself. This must make it a lonely time for him. But I also see how strong he is and I think, with a bit of stability and his determinedly positive outlook, he will be able to recover and move on.

One thing starts to bother me, though. Despite all the hours Izzy works and the tips he collects, he never seems to have any money. I’ve made it clear I want no payment in the way of rent or bills and we both eat like kings on leftovers from the Half Moon so he should at least have a bit of spare cash. He pays for his phone and I assume he is saving for a place of his own but, even so, he never goes out or buys any of the things he needs. 

The other thing that bothers me is that I occasionally hear him in his room, on the phone having, if not an argument, an unfriendly conversation. Once he came straight out into the kitchen after one of these calls. He was all smiles as usual and when I asked him about it he said it was Uncle Trevor checking on him. I didn’t believe this for a minute.

**~**

One Sunday morning in March James turns up at my flat. At first I assume it is a case as we’re on call, but he is not dressed for work and I see something is troubling him.

“Iz around?” He asks.

“Still asleep,” I say, though now I think of it, I did not hear him come in last night. “What’s up?”

“I’m not sure, sir.”

“Go on.”

He speaks quietly, “My neighbour.”

“Georgina.”

“Yes. She had some money taken from her flat yesterday when Iz was there.”

“Ah no, is she sure?”

“Definitely. She doesn’t trust cashpoints and gets her money from the bank all in one go. So, depending on the day of the week, she can have quite a bit of cash in the house. Yesterday, she went to the place she keeps it and it was gone. About £200.

“No one else had been in?”

“No, and there was no sign of a break-in. She loves Iz and didn’t want to think it was him so she was planning to talk to me about it. She went out in the afternoon and, this is the odd thing, when she got back, the money, every last penny, was back in place.”

Something connects in my mind, “Like Morse’s clock.”

James looks to the spot on the bookshelf where the silver carriage clock I inherited from Morse sits. I’m given to understand it is quite valuable though I can’t say I’m particularly fond of it. I keep it because it was his and because it was left to him by his old inspector. I also occasionally threaten to leave it to James in my will because I enjoy the pained expression this generates.

On Friday I noticed it was gone from its usual spot. I assumed that some kind of cleansing regime was about to be inflicted on it, but when it reappeared on Saturday it looked the same.

“It went and came back?”

“Yes.”

I knock for Izzy and call his name. When I get no answer I open his bedroom door.

He has gone and by the looks of it, taken all his things. All that is left in the room is a pile of James’ paperbacks, the keys to both our flats and a note which James reads over my shoulder. It is written in Izzy’s wild, punctuation-free hand and says; ‘sorry I hv to go thanx eva so much for everything dont worry.’ 

I try to phone but Izzy does not answer.

I collect my keys and jacket, “I’m going to see if I can find him.”

“Why?” James demands.

“What do you mean, why?”

“He’s chosen to betray your trust and walk out without a word. Leave him to it.”

“James,” I say. “There’s obviously something wrong.”

“Or he’s got himself into some trouble. And rather than talk to you about it, he’s walked out.”

“And you’re the expert in sharing your troubles, I suppose.”

His eyes go hard and his blank mask goes up.

“I’ll move my car,” he says and then he’s gone.

And I bloody hate arguing with James. I bloody hate it.

**~**

Ellie’s flat has again been secured by the Council and none of the door and window seals have been tampered with. I speak to the neighbours on either side but they have not seen the boy in weeks. 

My next stop is the Half Moon Café which is opening for lunch. He is not there but I recall he is friendly with two of the waitresses, Else and Katarina. I speak to Else; a petite Polish girl in the black jeans and t-shirt uniform worn by all the waiting and bar staff. She shows me a text Izzy sent her; ‘Cn u cova my shift tmr?’

“Is that all you’ve heard?”

“Yes and it is very strange. He takes every shift he can and always tells me every single thing he’s doing. Now he disappears and says nothing.”

“Do you know where he might be?”

She doesn’t and phones her friend, Katarina who has no idea either.

I decide to pay a visit to Trevor Field. I doubt Izzy would go to him but I have a strong feeling he has had something to do with whatever’s happened. I’m on my way to the nick to see if I can find out his home address when a message comes through from James. It reads; ‘Come to Hinksey’ and directs me to a well-known park bench. I turn the car around.

The bench is near a wooded area overlooking the lake and both Izzy and James are waiting for me there. The park is almost deserted today; the damp weather keeping all but a few joggers and dog walkers away. James is smoking and Izzy, a bin bag of his things at his feet, in his fur jacket and a woolly hat clasps a paper cup of tea. He looks like he has spent the night outside, perhaps here, where he can connect with his mother. Good for James for working it out.

The atmosphere between them is chilly, as if sharp words have been exchanged. Whatever was said is keeping Izzy pinned to his spot on the bench. 

“Thanks, man,” I say to James but he doesn’t look up.

I take a seat on the other side of Izzy, “So?”

“It’s really nice of you to come looking for me, Robbie but it ain’t a good idea to have me around.”

“Just tell me what happened. Is it something to do with your uncle?”

I see I’ve hit the mark.

“I owe him for mum’s funeral.”

“You mean he expects you to pay him back?”

He nods miserably, “I never realised how expensive it was.”

“And you told him you earn bugger all.”

“He said I should get you to lend me money. But I couldn’t ask, after all you’d given me.”

“So you stole it from an elderly widow who trusted you?”

“I know, wanker, right? It was what I used to do all the time; nick stuff. I found this pile of money in a drawer when I was looking for string to tie back Georgina’s roses. I didn’t even think, just stuffed it my pocket. And then there was that clock what you said you didn’t even like.”

“Morse left it to him, you idiot,” James snaps.

Izzy is looking down into his tea, “I thought it would be easy to be good when mum went and you let me stay, but it turns out it’s me; I’m just rotten.”

“Never mind the melodrama,” I say. “Why did you put everything back?”

“I looked at the clock in my hands and realised I was hurting you and Sergeant Hathaway and Georgina for his sake. And you’re all brilliant and he’s basically a tosser.”

“But then, why did you leave when you hadn’t stolen anything?”

He looks surprised at my obtuseness, “Because I betrayed you and there’s always got to be consequences.”

“Oh, for flips sake,” James says. “No more flipping Thomas Hardy.”

“But you won’t ever trust me again. I mean, I wouldn’t.”

“Now you listen to me,” I tell him. “You’ve done wrong and I can see you’ve had a scare but if you’re worried about anything, if something happens, you talk to me, you talk to James, you don’t run off. You’re family now. Do you understand?”

He looks stunned and so does James. I suppose he’s noticed I’ve co-opted him into the clan too.

“Now, where do I find DC Field? Me and him are going to have a chat.”

Izzy goes wide eyed, “I really don’t think you should wind him up. He can get nasty. Honestly, he’ll turn on you.”

“I’m familiar with the ways of Uncle Trevor. He doesn’t bother me, one bit. And you, sergeant.” James twitches an eyebrow at me. “Can you take this one to apologise to Georgina, feed him something hot and give him something less morally questionable to read? I’ll be back for him later.”

He pauses for a long moment as he considers his position, “Yes, sir,” he says.

**~**

DC Field’s flat is on a new estate outside Banbury. I find him at home and he invites me in with ill-concealed reluctance. It is not a huge place, just one bedroom, but it is more than big enough to temporarily house a second cousin on the sofa.

“I hear you’ve got young Isaac staying with you,” he says.

Now he’s in front of me I see a diluted version of the family good looks; the guarded blue gaze, the muddied charm.

“That’s right.”

“I’d lock up the family silver, if I were you.”

“Is that what you’d do?”

He hesitates, “What’s he done? He can be a little sod sometimes.”

“Come on, Field, can’t you guess why I’m here? What’s this about making Izzy pay for his mother’s funeral? You know he lost everything.”

“I had no obligation to pay out for that. The amount of money I handed over to that woman over the years.”

It is not easy being related to a drug addict and harder, I imagine, if you’re trying to carve out a career in the police. None of that is her son’s fault, but he doesn’t see it that way.

“How much did it cost you?”

He names a figure which sounds more or less right. I’ve brought my cheque book and I write a cheque for that amount minus what Izzy has already paid him.

He stares at it, “Why?”

“Do you want it or not?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll take it. Cheers, sir. I can really do with this for my car payments.”

But something feels wrong.

“What’s happened to Ellie’s ashes?” I ask.

“Sir?”

“Well, I’m sure you don’t want them, but Izzy might. If you’ve got them, I’ll take them with me now.”

Field looks cagey, even more so than usual, “They’re still with the funeral director.” 

“So if he goes, they’d give them over?”

He falls silent.

“You have actually paid? They’ll confirm that if the boy asks?” 

“I was going to get to it in a couple of months.” 

I take the cheque from his unresisting hand.

“It’s a bit low, isn’t it? Extorting money from a homeless child.”

“No worse than setting him up as your rent boy.”

There is silence while that remark sinks in.

“What exactly are you alleging, constable?” 

“Nothing,” he mumbles. “Nothing, sir.”

It is a shock to hear something like that from a junior colleague and I’m too surprised to properly pick him up on it. Though in retrospect I should have.

I know Trev Field and I’ve had to deal with his mean streak before, but now I’m wondering, is this what other people are thinking? The people I work with and respect. Is this what lay at the heart of James’ anxiety about Izzy coming to live with me? I feel old and stupid and the drive to James’ place does little to quell my anger.

**~**

There is a Sunday afternoon quiet in James’ living room which is immediately soothing. The remains of a pasta lunch are on the coffee table and Columbo gazes genially from the TV screen. Izzy is curled into the corner of the sofa under a blanket, but clambers up when I come in. James, arms folded, watches me. 

“Have you spoken to Georgina?” I ask.

Izzy nods, “She was lovely.”

He could put a positive spin on the apocalypse so I look to James for a more balanced perspective.

“She tried to give him money,” James says. “She tried to give him her pension.” I see he is calmer now; his outrage threaded through with humour. “And she told him to call her Georgie. Only her dead husband is allowed to call her Georgie. He’s hypnotised her too.” 

“Georgie says I can still do her garden,” Izzy says glancing at James and clearly wondering whether he should he be confessing to mesmerism charges as well as everything else.

“That’s good of her,” I say. “But it’s up to James. He might not want you here on your own.”

“No, its fine,” James says.

Izzy rakes fingers through his hair, “I want to make up for what I did.”

“You will, Iz,” says my sergeant with unusual gentleness. “Don’t give up on yourself, all right?” 

James offers me lunch and we go into the kitchen leaving Izzy watching the television.

“Sir, what happened with Field?” He asks while a pan of fresh pasta is heating and we’re sat at his kitchen table. 

“Well, to quote; he’s basically a tosser. He never paid for the funeral. The firm is withholding Ellie’s ashes until he does.”

James looks disgusted, “So what’s he been doing with all the money he’s taken off Iz?” 

“Paying for his new car, as far as I can tell.”

His shrewd eyes read me, “You’re going to pay for the funeral, aren’t you?”

“I am. Don’t say anything to him.”

I don’t even know why I’m doing it. Apart for the vague sense that with this debt cleared Izzy can start to draw a line under his old life. But I can see how it might look. What if James thinks the same as Field about me, about my intentions? I’m not sure I could stand it.

Unexpectedly though, he says, “I’ll pay half.” 

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is, I behaved inexcusably.”

“You?”

“I would have left him on the street for another night.”

James has done a lot for Izzy. Not just the clothes. He has helped him unpick the bureaucratic tangle he found himself in after the fire, when all his official papers and cards were destroyed and he couldn’t get into his bank account. He has scared off companies pursuing the lad for his mother’s debts and found out what he might be entitled to in benefits and education. A painstaking and time consuming set of tasks for someone with no free time.

“You felt let down,” I say. “That’s understandable.”

“It wasn’t that.” 

“Then, what?”

He reaches for his cigarettes, which means he is thinking about how to evade the question.

“I had no right to condemn him, when I’ve betrayed your trust and kindness before. In worse ways and with less reason but -.”

“James-”

“I have, we both know it. But if I’d had someone like you looking out for me when I was his age -.” 

He shakes his head and that is all I get. He is chasing down some memory in the grain of the pine table top. Of useless parents and troubling emotions, of being the one who feels things so much more profoundly. I give his shoulder a gentle nudge with mine until he looks up and smiles.

“So let me pay half.”

“I appreciate the offer,” I say. “But there’s no need. I can easily afford it and you’re saving for a deposit.”

He is silent for a moment, letting the subject drop but sensing there is more to know, “Did something else happen? When you came in, you seemed a bit – bruised.”

“It was fine. He’s a slimy git though.”

Izzy appears in the doorway holding dirty dishes and coffee mugs. He finds us heads close, speaking softly to keep him from overhearing. James draws back and I instantly feel the loss of him.

“What’s happened?” He asks, frowning. “Was Trev being an arse?”

“He was fine,” I say again. “Just, you’re not to give him anymore of your money.”

“What about the cremation? I’m nowhere near paying that off.”

“He’s got what he needs from you and that’s the end of it. Understand? If he comes to you for money, you tell me.”

He knows when he’s only getting a fraction of the story and he looks to James as the usual source of blunt truths. He shrugs as if to say, ‘You heard the man’.

**~**

A month or so passes and things go back to normal. Izzy is doing well at work. Customers respond to his friendliness and his managers to his work ethic and boundless enthusiasm. He is also continuing with his reading and has been given Jane Austen. According to James, if he over-identifies with one of her characters it will mean a husband and ten thousand a year rather than certain death.

James comes home with me one afternoon. Our double murder investigation has hit a dead-end and we have an evening reviewing fifty-eight witness statements over Chinese takeaway ahead of us.

The sound of Iggy Pop fills the flat. In common with my sergeant, Izzy is appalled by Wagner but has a knack of unearthing obscure artefacts from my seventies record collection. We find him dancing around the kitchen while washing up. His mother’s ashes, in their wooden casket, are on the kitchen table. I am surprised to see them there as the ashes have not been a particularly welcome addition to the household. They have travelled around the flat and were last seen on the shelf next to Morse’s clock; so that they could, ‘keep each other company’. 

“Hiya, Robbie, all right? Hello, Sergeant Hathaway.”

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, brilliant.”

“You been having a word with your mam?”

“I was telling her some news.”

“Oh yes, what’s that?”

“I’m getting a permanent contract at work and a pay rise.”

“Congratulations, lad. Well deserved.” 

James, on his way to the fridge to get us beers, squeezes Izzy’s shoulder, “Is your job staying the same?”

“No, I’m not a waiter anymore. I’m going to be the one who greets the customers and brings them to their table and makes sure all the bits of the restaurant are covered. All that type of thing.”

“Hear that, James; a management role.” He gives me a look.

“Sort of,” Izzy says. “Mostly tarting about.”

“No its not. You’ll do really well at that.”

He beams at me, “Thanks, Robbie.” 

He picks up the remains of his mother and puts them in the cupboard under the sink; her current last resting place, it seems. 

“People like to scatter ashes sometimes,” James tells him after watching him shut the casket away. 

Izzy looks thoughtful, “You’re supposed to chuck them off a boat, aren’t you?”

“Not necessarily,” James says. “It’s usually somewhere beautiful or peaceful.”

“They are freaking me out a bit, to be honest,” Izzy says. “I keep imagining they swept her out of the flat like that.”

Ah, of course. He told me he had not been allowed to view the body; that they had identified from DNA. 

“Did Ellie have a favourite place she liked to go?” James asks. 

“The bins behind Tesco,” Izzy says after giving the question some thought. “That’s where she used to meet her dealer.”

James is rendered speechless.

“Well,” I say. “Let’s think on that a bit.”

**~**

Izzy takes to his extra responsibilities and is soon doing well in the new job. He is elated to discover the jeans and t-shirt dress code no longer applies and, given complete carte blanche, he leaves the house each day looking like he’s off to join the circus.

The job also comes with more predictable hours and he gives in to James by enrolling on some GCSE courses. I could only wish my sergeant was so focused on his own progression.

As part of her tireless attempts to bring him on, Jean Innocent enlists James to help with the spring recruitment round. After a morning spent sifting applications, he tells me a transfer request has come in from DC Field. He is applying to Robbery after three years away from central Oxford. James opts out, saying he can’t be involved in Field’s interview for personal reasons. Field seemingly decides one or both of us is to blame when he is rejected anyway.

**~**

A couple of weeks pass and I am in the office wondering where James has disappeared to with my tea when Innocent appears in the doorway shrugging on her coat and saying I am to go with her. She tells me, though it takes a moment to sink in, that James has been fighting with DC Trevor Field outside Banbury Police Station.

“You what? Is he all right?” 

“Yes, they both are. Come on, let’s go.”

I grab my jacket, “What the bloody hell was he doing in Banbury? He was only going to the kitchen.”

“I got a call from Field’s CS who couldn’t give me much information. I spoke to Hathaway and told him to go home and we’d meet him there.”

We take her car and, on the drive over, she asks me what I think it’s all about.

“Did you know DC Field is related to Izzy Field? A second cousin.”

“Goodness, I don’t see the resemblance.”

“There isn’t much of one. We had a bit of a set-to about paying off Ellie’s funeral and the boy was convinced Field would make trouble for me.”

“And then we turned down his transfer application.”

“Did something come of it?”

“Not that I know of. But trouble for you is trouble for James, isn’t it, Robbie?”

I can see James is not in great shape when he answers the door. He has a black eye starting and he moves his left arm awkwardly as if it has been injured. In his living room, I sit next to him on the sofa while Innocent takes the armchair.

“You’re all right?” I ask. “Do you need a doctor? Did you bang your head?”

“I’m fine, sir,” he says quietly.

“What’s wrong with your arm?”

“I pulled a muscle or something, its nothing.”

Innocent waits until she has our attention before speaking. “What exactly were you doing in Banbury, Sergeant Hathaway?” 

“I went to find DC Field, ma’am,” he says.

“Why?”

“I wanted to speak to him.”

“About -?

He doesn’t answer. 

“About what, sergeant? To be clear, I’m looking for a reason not to suspend you pending a misconduct investigation.”

He looks at me, “I’m sorry for embarrassing you, sir. I didn’t intend to fight with him.”

“What did you intend?” I ask.

“To warn him.”

“About what?”

“Spreading lies.”

I wait but he again falls silent.

“James.”

He gives me a gentle and unguarded look which does unexpected damage to my heart.

“About me, I take it.” 

And now I know what’s been said.

Innocent is impatiently pointing out that she doesn’t share our psychic link when the doorbell and my phone ring at the same time.

“It’s Izzy Field, ma’am,” I say to Innocent. “He’s outside. He’s got something to tell you.” 

“Uncle Trev phoned,” Izzy says before he’s through the living room door. “He reckons he’s had a fight with Sergeant Hathaway.” He catches sight of James. “Bloody hell. Did Trev do that?”

I see Innocent registering Izzy’s outfit. Apart from the inevitable fur jacket he is all in black, wearing a long Esme Ford t-shirt. He is also wearing a pleated skirt over his jeans. It is a boy’s skirt, or so he told me, and when I asked James about it this morning, he said it is a boy’s skirt if a boy is wearing it. I made him put a pound in the ‘philosophy before lunch’ tin for that.

“Izzy,” Innocent says when she has successfully refocused her attention. “We’re in the middle of a meeting. Have you got something relevant to contribute?”

“Yes. Trev Field is a fat, stuck up liar and he’s going round saying that I’m taking money off Robbie for - you know - doing stuff - and its bollocks. I told him he’d better wind his neck in. I told him no one’s better than Robbie.”

“I take it, this rumour reached you, sergeant?” Innocent asks. “Did you hear something about Inspector Lewis that upset you?” He has his hand over his face and starts when she says, “Hathaway!”

“I overhead some uniforms talking, ma’am.”

“And instead of using appropriate channels to raise a complaint you go and –“

“Kick his stupid head in,” Izzy finishes for her. “It’s all what would work with him, honest.”

“Izzy, be quiet for a minute.”

“It’s true, though. He’s been due a twatting a long time. That’s what nan used to say.”

“That’s a lovely story, Izzy. Now hush.”

“It got out of hand,” James says when he can get a word in. “I started the fight and I understand that you have to suspend me.”

“No way,” Izzy says in a stage whisper. “Do Trev instead.”

“I’m sorry,” James says. “I feel a bit sick. Do you mind if we do this later?”

Innocent sighs, “I’ve got the picture anyway. Don’t come in to work tomorrow. You’re on leave until you hear from me.” She gets to her feet. “Izzy, you can have a lift somewhere if you stop going on about kicking people’s head in.”

“Yeah but, you ain’t going to do anything to Sergeant Hathaway?” 

“There’s a process we have to go through, Iz,” I tell him. “Go on back to work. There isn’t anything else you can do.”

She whisks him away, apparently not expecting me to go with her. I see them off and go back inside. In the kitchen, I find a pack of frozen peas which James must have been using on his eye. I wrap it in a cloth and give it to him. There is also a bottle of whiskey and a glass on the table. I find another glass and pour us both a drink.

“What were you thinking, man?” I ask, sitting back down next to him.

He presses the pack to his face. 

“I’m sorry, but I wasn’t having that.” 

“Come on, James. What do I care what Field says? As long as the people that matter don’t believe it.”

“Well, I care. He’s got away with enough.”

“And now look at the state of you.”

“I know, I am sorry.”

“How did you leave him? Still standing, I gather.”

“He’s all right. For someone who can take six weeks to file a statement, he’s fast on his feet.”

He lets his hand drop away from his face.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Of course.” Though the drink is as much for my benefit as his.

“Don’t think people believe this rubbish. No one is more respected in the nick than you.”

“Thank you, James.”

“And don’t let this spoil anything. Izzy’s good for you and you’re good for him. I know I had my doubts but you’ve done a really good thing, an amazing thing, you’ve saved his life.” He glances at me, then away. “Just like you saved mine.”

It is quite a speech and I can see he is close to tears. 

“Just like you saved mine, James.

I never like to think where I’d be if James hadn’t arrived in my life; wielding smelling salts, bringing me out of the stupor I had allowed myself to sink into. But these are not things we can easily speak of. We drink too fast and we don’t speak.

“You don’t look so good,” I say eventually. “Why don’t you go and lie down.”

“I think I’d better.” Using his uninjured arm for leverage he gets to his feet. “You don’t have to stay.” 

I hear him moving about in the bathroom and bedroom, see the bedroom light go off. But it seems wrong to leave him alone; this man who cares for my waifs and strays, this madman who fights in the street for my honour. 

He turns on to his side as I come in and watches me without speaking. I sit on the edge of his bed and rest my hand on his hair; the soft, sharp points of an animal pelt. He closes his eyes, pushes back against me. I move my hand down to the back of his neck, to cool the furnace burning there and we stay this way until he falls asleep.

**~**

I wait with him until I know he is all right and it is almost midnight by the time I get home. Izzy has just got in too.

“Is Sergeant Hathaway okay?” He asks, his mood subdued by the few hours he has had to fret.

“He’ll be fine,” I tell him.

“Is he in big trouble?”

“I don’t think so, but we have to wait for Jean Innocent to finish her investigation.”

He chews his bottom lip, “None of this would have happened if I wasn’t here.”

“Doesn’t make it your fault.” 

“Yeah, it does. I’m like a car crash, I’m just a load of trouble for everyone.” 

“Oh rubbish, enough of that. You’re a great kid and you’re not responsible for what anyone else does. You should know that better than anyone.” He looks unconvinced. “Come on, let’s get that kettle on.”

He stops on the way to the kitchen to say hello to Monty.

“Do you think I should write to Jean and say how nice Sergeant Hathaway is? And what a ball-bag Trev is.”

“I think you’ve already made your position clear.”

“Sergeant Hathaway’s a real sweetheart.” 

“Is he? I can’t say I’ve noticed.”

“He comes and looms over you but it’s only because he wants you to do your GCSEs. And he only thumped Uncle Trevor because of how he loves you.”

“Steady now, lad.”

“’Course he does.”

He takes a couple of containers of leftovers from his backpack and we share a cold supper with our tea. It makes me think of James, alone in his flat. No doubt how he prefers it. 

When the kitchen is clean enough to meet his standards, Izzy says goodnight.

“’Night, Iz, sleep well.”

As he wanders off he says, “He does, you know. Properly loves you.”

For a boy who attracts the worst possible luck he has a way of persuading you to believe in the impossible.

**~**

Innocent’s investigation is quickly concluded. Field, she learns, sustained no injuries, doesn’t want to make a complaint and is generally ‘winding his neck in’. This makes us wonder if James is as responsible for what happened as he is claiming. He is issued with a written warning which will disappear from his file in a year assuming he doesn’t smack round any other colleagues, no matter how much they deserve it.

It is the last I hear of Field’s nasty idea and I notice no difference in the way colleagues respond to me. Either they never believed him or the descending wrath of Hathaway has persuaded them to the truth.

**~**

One evening, when I have just got home and Izzy is about to leave for his evening shift, he tells me he is going to be moving out soon. 

“Not because of this business with your uncle, I hope.”

“’Course not. I’m going to share with Else and Kat. They found a flat near work and they need a couple of others.”

“That’s grand, Iz. As long as you know you’ve always got a home here if you need it.”

“Thanks, Robbie,” he beams. “You’re the best.”

He potters about getting ready. Today is apparently a paisley day. He looks like a walking migraine, but he carries it off with newly acquired self-assurance.

“I’m allowed a free meal for two at the restaurant as a sort of bonus,” he says. “Would you and Sergeant Hathaway take it? I owe you both big time.”

I tell him I’ll talk to James and come up with a date. He looks satisfied, as though his master plan is coming together. 

“Since I’m moving out,” he says compounding the visual horror when he puts on the leopard skin. “Sergeant Hathaway could have my room.”

“I don’t think he’d take to that idea. He likes his own company.”

“His flat’s a dump and he’s only happy when he’s with you.”

I see what he is doing. He has a mission to make sure everything is slotted into its proper place and in his mind, James belongs with me. I can’t say I disagree.

**~**

It is three or four weeks later in early June when we claim our table at the Half Moon. Izzy greets us joyfully and leads us upstairs to the quieter part of the restaurant where a table lit with candles is set for two. Subtlety has never been his strong point.

“Come and have a drink with us later, tell us how you’re getting on,” James says.

“Will do,” he says and goes off, trailing a scarf decorated with hearts and roses.

“How are you getting on without him?” James asks when we have looked at the menu and the waitress has poured our wine. He is wearing a dark blue shirt, open at the collar and there is a faint scent of aftershave mingling with the wine and candlewax.

“Oh you know; I miss him but I’m glad he’s doing so well.”

“It suits you to have a family with you; people. I knew it but I didn’t really know it.”

“What about you? Izzy says you should have his room.”

And James blushes from his collar to the tips of his ears.

“Ah, sorry, I’ve been around an extrovert for too long.”

“No, it’s -, it’s okay.” He takes a sip of wine. “My lease – it’s up in two months.”

I absorb the implications of this while he watches me and then because - how much time has our reticence already cost us - I reach across the table. His hand comes to meet mine.

He registers concerned surprise at the reckless behaviour of his fingers, then he looks up at me. 

“I don’t know if I can,” he says simply.

I stroke his knuckle with my thumb; feeling bone under cool skin, “You might do me damage and not be able to help it, is that it?” 

He is silent but holds my hand with a fierce grip. 

“I reckon you’re worth the risk,” I tell him. “I reckon we’re worth a chance. Don’t you?”

**~**

Instead of the back of Tesco, Izzy decides to scatter Ellie’s ashes in the lake at Hinksey. It takes us a while to get the permissions we need and by the time we are ready it is a cloudless August Sunday morning before the Half Moon opens, before the crowds descend on the park.

We’ve picked up Georgina on our way. Else, Kat and others from the restaurant have come with Izzy. Jean Innocent and a couple of the older officers from the nick are here. Even PC Isaac, now sergeant and based in Coventry has made an appearance. DC Field has been invited and he is here with his girlfriend, focusing on keeping out of James’ way.

At Izzy’s request, Innocent reads a strange and melancholy passage from Tess. Having predicted this, James has prepared something by Keats which strikes a more optimistic note. I close my eyes and listen to his beautiful voice as he recites quiet bowers and flowery bands. I think of those I’ve lost over the years and those I’ve found. His hand slips into mine and I, raising it, kiss its palm, remembering last night, when he slept warm and murmuring in my arms.

We watch Izzy carefully scattering the ashes on the lake. They rest for a moment on the still, blue surface before sinking and disappearing as if they had never been.

 

End

 

January 2016


End file.
